


In the Hazy Glow of a Fried Chicken Coma

by ArtHistory



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Belly Kink, Chubby Cecil, Chubby Kink, Human Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), Human Cecil Palmer, M/M, Overeating, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:59:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27509476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtHistory/pseuds/ArtHistory
Summary: Cecil Palmer has put on a lot of weight since he quit smoking. After a day of debauchery, he realizes just how much more he wants.
Relationships: Carlos/Cecil Palmer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 75





	In the Hazy Glow of a Fried Chicken Coma

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DelightfulExcess (SevereStorms)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fried Chicken and Cigarettes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5253746) by [DelightfulExcess (SevereStorms)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/DelightfulExcess). 



> I've been a fan of the Cold Turkey series since it first dropped, and it's still one of my favorites to revist. If you have the chance, go and read it! It's a simply fantastic piece. This work is set in the aftermath of the Nightvale Annual Fried Chicken and Cigarettes Fair. https://archiveofourown.org/works/5253746

Falling asleep on a full stomach hit differently.

The stretch of the skin around the belly. The gurgling drowsiness of an overpacked form. The feeling of just being  **massive** that came from  **indulging** . Even better if the food was heavy. Greasy, crispy, sugary. These foods flooded, shocked the system. Made a heavier gut feel heavier. Rounder. 

Fatter.

And all of that on top of sex with your perfect boyfriend? Dear god, the best night’s sleep of your life was essentially guaranteed.

So why was Cecil Palmer still awake?

The host of Night Vale Community Radio was willing himself not to understand why. His pale hands balled to fists at his sides, then relaxed, eyes staring up at the dark ceiling, watching the fan above him spin clockwise, then counter-clockwise, then counter-counter-clockwise, as all fans did if you stared at them for long enough. Show offs. His eyes flicked to his left, lips tilting upwards in the softest of smiles as his lover and his scientist, Carlos, slept soundly. Cecil let his head turn, resisting the urge to brush back the dark, thick nest of curls that fell over the Mexican-American man’s forehead, his eye. Heat radiated off the nearly-naked man, blanket and sheet kicked off the both of them, leaving Carlos exposed to the air in solely his boxers.

Cecil’s stomach gurgled.

The Annual Nightvale Fried Chicken and Cigarette Fair had evolved from a test of will to keep Cecil from snagging a desperate puff of nicotine after months of clean breathing into an all-out gorgefest. Apparently the much lesser-visited side of the festival, the side with the fried chicken, was so eager to have local celebrity and community radio host talk up their cooking that the pale blond has been essentially plopped in front of a conveyor belt of deep fried poultry. Dozens of plates filling and emptying the picnic table he’d sat down at to catch his breath after a full hour of sampling food, turning the radio host into a parade float in the process. Cecil squeezed his eyes shut at the memory of his several of the people at the surrounding tables turning to look at him, taking in his obvious overindulgence. Some gasped small, barely there gasps. Some quickly nudged their partners. Some outright grinned, amused by the predicament of the ballooned blond, watching Cecil rest his palm into his lower back like a pregnant mother, his boyfriend stabling his arm, gluttony so rampant he was nearly tipping over.

Cecil gasped, quickly biting his lower lip as his cock tented his pants.

He’d  _ liked _ that people had noticed it today.

His belly. His  **gut** .

The wide, round,  **fat** dome that had grown, inch by inch, bite by bite since he’d quit smoking. Since he’d became so damn  **insatiable** . Eating everything in sight and then going out to get more. A snack always within arms reach. It had started as a way to keep himself from grabbing a cigarette. And then...well then he’d  **liked** it. Liked eating. Chewing. Swallowing. Liked unwrapping candies until his desk was covered in wrappers, until the tub of butter and the package of wheat-free English muffins were empty - signs he’d eaten something out of existence. Signs he’d stuffed himself. Signs he was a glutton.

And then the signs started showing up on him.

A delectable trace of frosting on his lower tummy. The barest bit of flesh around his hips, burying the sharp bones there. The swell of his stomach from concave, to flat, to barely puffed. Then  **bulging** . It hadn’t happened overnight, of course, but here, now, with Cecil’s hands drifting up, over the wide, arched mass of tightly packed  **belly** , well...fuck. 

Cecil felt...chubby.

Hefty. Overfed. Spoiled. Round. Porcine. Gluttonous.

His nimble fingers drifted to the lowest part of his silk, lavender sleep shirt. Even laying down, with so much stuffed into him, Cecil realized he’d, without thinking, undone the lowest button of his shirt to give his gut more room to relax. What was he turning into? What  **had** he turned into?

Why was he still awake?

As quietly as he could, Cecil rolled to his side. He felt his stomach gurgle, a low, soft belch working its way out of him as his belly spread before him on his sheets. He sat up, looking over his shoulder to ensure he hadn’t woken Carlos. He started he rise, only for another deep, greasy burp to bubble up his throat, the extra time spent sitting making Cecil realize just how much wider his once non-existent ass felt beneath him, spreading out along the mattress and stretching, straining the fabric of his pajama pants.

“Oh, wow, Uncle Cecil, you got fat!”

Cecil rose, hurriedly. Cecil flushed. His niece, Janice, in her childish lack of manners, had said something that made Cecil realize what everyone around him was thinking.

His bare feet padded along the carpet, gut bulging before Cecil, leading him as he walked. Where was he going? Why was he awake? What was he-

“Oh, wow, Cecil, you got fat!”

The comment wasn’t from Janice any more, though she was the only one who’d said it out loud. No, this time the comment came from the patrons of the fair. The people who had stared at him while he’d gorged himself into oblivion. Those that had watched him struggle to rise. The chefs that had brought him plate after plate after plate. They’d been too polite to say it out loud. To comment so plainly. But they must have thought it. Considered it. He’d gained...good lord, who knew how much. Cecil felt himself moving down the stairs. It should have been embarrassing, to have to obviously...grown in such a short time. To have gone from a waifish radio personality to a notably bellied, greedy, constantly gorging,  **fat** .

Fat.

He’d gotten fat.

Cecil blinked, finding himself suddenly adjusting to the bright, piercing light of the fridge. He wasn’t hungry. He was, to be honest, still rather full.

“Oh, wow, Cecil, you got fat.”

The voice belonged to Carlos now. His Carlos. The Carlos who had so desperately cum just from gliding his hands, his tongue over Cecil’s fattened belly. The Carlos who lost control when Cecil ate, the timid scientist who slammed him into doors, walls, who kissed him with such want, such desperation when Cecil packed himself with more, more, more. Cecil’s hand reached forward, grabbing a tub of cookie dough, tearing the lid off like a starving animal. 

He moaned as the fistful of dough passed his lips. Then the second. Then the third. Cecil felt his belly round, bulge, stretch fuller as he packed bite after bite of sweet sugar cookie into the mound of fried chicken, ambrosia, cole slaw, peach pie. He ate because he wanted to. Needed to. Had to feel wide, round, tight, full.  **Fat** . Cecil’s hand had unscrewed the milk before he even realized he was chugging it, knocking back thick, long swallows like a man dying of thirst. He panted, slamming it down, almost empty, feeling his stomach bloat out wider, the dome of smooth, perfectly pale flesh stretching, straining, making itself known against the buttons of his sleep shirt.

He needed to sit. He finish this entire tub of cookie dough. Cecil grabbed one more handful of dough, stuffing it into his cheeks until they bulged, full ass backing up as-

“Oh, wow”

Cecil Palmer flushed. 

He straightened, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk’s, and red as can be. Tub of dough, open, under one arm. 

Carlos stood, his tight form illuminated by the light, but so dwarfed by Cecil’s enormous, round shadow on the wall. Cecil flushed further, the dark mirror of himself looking so incredibly massive, distorted by his proximity to the fridge as he was cast in whale-like proportions along the back wall.

He swallowed, gasping, free hand rubbing up and down the wide, round, tight dome of his belly.

“I...I think in indulging you, Carlos, I’ve...I’ve been indulging myself too.” He admitted, flushed impossibly brighter as Carlos’ hands found his stomach.

“Cecil, you are going to get so fat.”


End file.
